


Persistence

by DarkSilverWings



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Banter, F/M, M/M, Slight fluff, Underfell Grillby, Underfell Sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkSilverWings/pseuds/DarkSilverWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evanescent flames of a clamour you'd never seen before fill you with determination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persistence

**Author's Note:**

> The Underfell!Grillby this story contains belongs to ask-grillby.tumblr.com and a huge thanks goes to them for letting me use him in this story :)  
> OTL I'm sorry if it's not in character

Persistence  
Underfell!Grillby/Reader

It certainly wasn't easy to convince this man to be your friend. Initially, it was the bar's appearance that had drawn you in and had you mingling among some of the, surprisingly, familiar faces among the crowd. You must've thanked Dogamy and Dogaressa more times than you could remember for introducing you to the bar and convincing the guard you were a decent person (and with money to spend). The music, the cool tones, the drink choices, it all made it worth the prices to you, but you didn't frequent as much as you would've liked. Despite this infrequency, or perhaps because of it, the first time you'd met the owner of Grillby's was a good half year after the bar wrote itself on your list of enjoyable places.

The fire elemental was slightly terrifying by glimpse alone, but something about the colours and the swirl of the flame drew you in further than you would've liked as a first impression. You almost regretted that when he opened his mouth to shoot a cocky remark your way. Almost.  
Besides that you can tell that he's curious as to how you became nearly a regular for this length of time without his knowing, and you'd managed to sometimes hear snippets of conversation between him and other bar regulars. For fear of getting banned from the bar, you refrained from talking to him very often, just in case he didn't like you. But behind that fear lurked the determination to get to know the monster who you believed more than the flicking violet tongues of arrogant flame, and so you did try. Without pressing limits, you gathered up your courage and your wits to speak to him. He was leaning against the smooth panelling of the bar, and shot you a, "Oh? And was that ever doubted?" To your remark that he seemed an interesting personality.

The second time you tried maybe to see if that narcissistic side was better to appeal to, and told him your honest words that you thought he was certainly a looker. To which he'd raised his fingers in a mock gun and thrown you a wink before walking away from your shocked figure. Apparently you were more easily embarassed than you had so believed, but hell if that was going to stop you. You didn't see him for a while after that, not quite knowing where he'd gone and receiving not more than shrugs from whichever human or monster you could ask. Though run by a monster, Grillby's was a high class bar no matter who you were, and certainly there was a reason since people came regardless.

He resurfaced to skulk around the bar nearly a month later, and you had to restrict yourself from striding right up to him because you were so sure he wouldn't appreciate or respond positively to being cornered by you just days after his return from wherever he'd gone. So you watch him slip behind to make a drink of his own before leaving his backup bartender alone and sipping in a corner of the room so dark you could convince yourself the hurt you swore was plastered on his face was a trick of your eyes. When you next arrive, you spot someone you recognise: Sans. This is what prompts you to take the bold seat at the bar next to him, before you actually notice that Grillby is managing the job today.

Sans chuckles offhandedly at your embarassed expression, and then raises his bone brow when you don't slide out of the seat. His perpetual mocking frown reappears as he chats with Grillby in what you perceive to be white noise; you catch none of it as you attempt to catch your confidence instead. You don't even really understand an hour has passed until both monsters turn to you. Sans speaks first, gap between his brow-bone's tensing as he tries to sound casual, asking if you're alright. The next words are Grillby's, "If you're not buying anything, get the fuck out." 

When Sans snarls, you pull out a few bills and order two of the most expensive drink your eyes can find and are glad when he knows both of your ID so doesn't ask. That certainly shuts his complaints up and apparently, Sans is shocked by you as well. You choose not to address that issue just yet, and watch the flame monster seemingly in his element mixing and pouring various quantities of drinks with a flourish you can only guess is the result of practice. You try to talk to Sans as Grillby serves the drinks and he picks up the one you'd bought for him, and luckily the skeleton seems in the mood to chatter enough to keep you distracted from the indigos pulling your eyes elsewhere. After his drink though, Sans leaves with a flash of his sharp teeth and you curse the very same luck that had helped you.

After one last heavy draught of the drink, you place the glass gently on the table and look up at the bartender. Grillby glances at your empty glass and shifts on his feet to cock an arm at his hip, "Somethin' you want, kid?" You sigh and point to another expensive drink so believing at least you'd keep him interested for the money aspect, if nothing else. When you finally gather the courage to open your mouth, he's still mixing your drink but you speak anyway, "Grillby, I was wondering, do you consider being friends with clients?" He replies almost automatically, if with a teasing intonation to his words of, "If they pay well I'd consider playing along to their friendship games." To which you have no answer, since there's too much wrong with that sentence in your ears. 

He probably expects you've gone quiet until he sets your glass down and you speak up again, "Not as a game, I mean...not for the money either, just for the company?" You offer as a supplement, immediately feeling like you've pushed too far and simultaneously as if you haven't pushed enough. You glance at him discretely over the top of your glass as he stands, arms crossed and white hot jagged frown splitting the hues of his face, and doesn't answer for so long you think he won't. "Don't need anybody's company but my own", he rumbles slowly but it's hollow and this time you know it. So you take another sip, stare into the chartreuse of your glass and try to will yourself out of the building. The other side of you that's sparking to jab further shyly slips your phone across the table to the elemental, who immediately looks more confused if the deepening of his frown is anything to judge by. So you elaborate, "Can we be friends maybe?"  
He scoffs, 'shove off' is what his expression says and what his stance radiates, but he hasn't pushed your phone back. So you wait, sipping your drink in the most delaying fashion possible until the drink itself is little more than discolouration in the ice cubes, and he picks your phone up.

He doesn't reply to your texts too often, but reads them nonetheless, and at most times that's alright. You've made it a challenge to say something that gets a reply from him, and you're about fifty fifty with the successes versus the failures. Grillby doesn't apologise for not replying, and you don't need him to; his behaviour in person as well stays the same for the most part. Now that you're more organised, you make it a point to come every Friday and Saturday, and he knows this and expects it. Those are the days he lights the stove with tongues of flame that he breathes, or raises the tones of the fire higher, both for the popularity and the chance to get a ruse. But you're nothing but compliments and awe, even when the stove fire gets too close on some days that may or may not have been his way of trying to exasperate you with his presence. The weeks are stagnant, but in the least negative way possible, like the feeling of laziness procured when cuddled in bed. Sometimes Sans shows up and asks you what the hell you're doing here again, which might have been his way of telling you to be careful but you aren't too sure. It's only when work compels you to break your schedule that anything changes.

The overload of things that needed to be completed forced you to take a small leave from the bar, just until you'd cleared up enough to go back and during this time you'd done your best to focus on work alone, drinking as much coffee as you could and eating only whatever could be consumed quickly and while working. You showered once a day, too busy for your regular second, left clothes strewn about your normally clean floors and your phone was nowhere to be found and probably out of battery; not that anyone would call of course. After about three weeks of this, the stream of assignments seemed to slow, churning out continuously as you had had brought you some form of relief.

Still anxious about it however, you decided to complete as much as possible with a small hope in your heart of going to Grillby's this weekend. With a deep sigh, you began to clean up your house as a first priority and when you were somewhat convinced it was alright ordered decent food and a tub of ice cream from a local grocery delivering place, fully prepared to use this first night to wind down from your stiffly cricked spine and pounding skull. The next time you'd breathed against the hands that your cheek rested on beside your work materials, you knew you were drifting a little. Couldn't hurt too terribly right?

"Is this little fuck _sleeping?_ Sans what the hell, she lives in this place?" Your mind registered the voice and you thought you might be dreaming, a faint glow to the edge of your vision and no care in the world that you'd probably get horrible cramps from sleeping this way. A deep chuckle resonated through your eardrums and a sound like zapping broke the silence. Something warm moved around the room, as if scrutinising but you couldn't mind too much when it was just so...well, warm. Finally, whatever that was stopped in front of your face and drove the rosy tint from the cold straight off your cheeks, you hummed in appreciation.  
"Get the fuck up and _explain yourself,_ I closed the bar for this", that's Grillby's voice, but he can't be here. He closed the bar for you? Hmm, what a wonderful dream, you sigh with a soft smile and an attempt to sink further into the thought. A heated puff of air streams past your cheek before arms pick you up but you're too far gone to open your eyes. The lack of sleep takes it's toll and you aren't even very aware more than base gratefulness of the blanket that's draped over you. Colourful images and sweet coffee at Grillby's swim across your dreams for quite a few hours, you're not exactly sure.

When you next wake, you wonder if it's the same month, but feel well rested. And it's not cold? The blanket you're wearing is thin and normally you'd be freezing but it's not even a little cold and you're confused. A shuffle in the kitchen followed by a hum turns that confusion into fear and you grab the nearest thing to your nightstand before creeping apprehensively down the hallway. Before you're fully through the kitchen entrance you hear the crackle of flames and see a pale coloured apron. You rub your eyes to make sure this isn't still a dream, and don't believe when the image doesn't disappear. "Grill...by?"

"Surprise surprise, you aren't an amnesiac." He doesn't even glance your way. That's how you know he's real. You're shocked into enough silence that you jump when he asks, "And how are you meant to defend yourself from me with a lighter?"  
You look down at your hand to indeed see an ornate black lighter decorated with gold twinings and know for sure you don't own this. "It's mine", he confirms. Why is he talking this much? He usually doesn't. Why is he even here? "H-how...did you get here?"  
"Sans."

You mouth an 'oh' and sit at the table to watch his back as he moves around your kitchen as if he's familiar with everything in it and wonder how long he's been here and if he really is familiar with your kitchen by now. "How long've I been out?"  
"About two days."  
His answers are curt and straight forward and nothing you'd expect from him. There isn't any snark. If he'd been there when you'd passed out he must've been here the two days as well. Before you can voice another question he speaks again, "Two days you fuckin' owe me for, I've kept the bar closed the whole damn time I wouldn't be surprised if they think I've run out of business."  
"Why _were_ you here?"

This he doesn't answer immediately, he finishes apparently making breakfast and sets two plates on the table with artistically presented and unbelievably good looking food, followed by two mugs of coffee and you notice he's set the cutlery too. You continue to wait for the answer he probably won't give and only when he sits down do you get it. "Couldn't let ya die like that. You hadn't been to the bar in weeks, thought you quit drinks or something had happened. Both of which are atrocious, since I need the money", his tale spins with so many details you know he's rambling; he's never spoken so much in all the time you've seen or known him.  
Maybe on another day he'd respond to your texts a little more, maybe he'd let you care, maybe he'd stop being such an asshole and maybe soon you'd be able to talk more freely with the fire monster. When you catch sight of your phone on the table with a gold tooth scrawled lazily on a post-it at the back you know Sans had been by too and found and charged your dead phone. Grillby's gone silent so you don't think it too impolite to check your phone, not really expecting more than an odd message or two. The opposite happened, and your phone nearly fell off the table with its rapid succession of 'ping' noises and your eyes widened at 27 messages from two contacts alone. Sans, strangely...and Grillby. When you looked up his gaze was averted.

Grillby, [MM/DD] 10:47 P.M.: This is the second fucking week you aren't here

Grillby, [MM/DD] 11:29 P.M.: You'd better write me a cheque for all the money you haven't spent this whole time.

Grillby, [MM/DD] 8:23 P.M.: If you got arrested or some shit I'll pay your bail for 50% interest.

Grillby, [MM/DD] 8:25 P.M.: Okay no, 55%, I was being too generous.

Texts of a similar caliber filled your inbox along with Sans telling you Grillby forgot to turn the stove on and was annoying the shit out of him to find out where you lived. Apparently Sans had also been bribed to shut the fuck up about it and not tell a single soul. Bribed heftily. Likely just after he'd sent this text. You raised your shocked eyes to a blue and lavender creeping colour across the other's neck. He's out the door before you can get a word in, and you spend the rest of the day re-reading all your messages and dashing to the bar the second you knew it'd be open. The blue tones and lighting didn't feel harsh against your skin and the familiarity settled deep beneath your skin when you breathed the scent of the place. It was empty, too early for any of the regulars to be in. It seemed Grillby was though, because he strutted right in front of you and crossed his arms, obviously having tried to sort himself together since this morning. Tried being the keyword since the entire lower half of his face was near cerulean and he still stuttered on the words as they slipped out of him, "I...c-care about you. There. D-don't fucking make me say it again."


End file.
